And what would you, Your Majesty, do with a helmet-crown, she thinks. If you put on a helmet, a bascinet, would you be able to endure that confined and narrow space, as the world you are familiar with—the perfumed rooms, the warm halls filled with delicate music—collapses into darkness? Into stale air that soon turns into the smell of blood, either your own or someone else’s? A suit of armor weighs no less than fifty pounds, and I would tell you that my own skin is as welded to my armor as if I were born with a covering of steel. Would your kingly body be able to bear such a weight? If we entered the crowded place of battle together, what would happen? In battle, you may find yourself in a ditch, a man wriggling at your feet like a worm that tosses and turns in earth, while another is screaming, dying with his body pressed against your back. Sometimes there is no space, so one has to make a space, to carve it out in order to keep alive. And it is the same rule with life. If there is no space for you, then you must create it. So, I ask myself, what is a king but a leader of men? And if he is not a leader of men, then is he still a king?

She wonders, too, At the end of this imaginary battle, would I find you standing? Or would you be sitting far, far away in your tent, wearing armor that is very polished and beautiful, and sipping a goblet of mulled wine? If we swapped clothes now, mine for your finer robes, would others know the difference?

The silence has stretched too long to be saved, and the King is staring at her as if he has guessed her thoughts. She opens her mouth, closes it. He does not try to stop her as she leaves. From the hall, she can still hear faint voices raised in song.